Column: In the toilet with Jo Dee Messina

By Jon Dawson

Published: Monday, October 8, 2012 at 08:34 PM.

After hosing the kids down, we corralled them into the trunk of my car and drove to my parents’ house. We motored onto the driveway and turned the car around so the trunk would be facing their front door. Two minutes of horn-honking later, my folks opened their front door. At this moment, I threw the car in reverse and immediately hit the breaks. This chain of events caused the kids to jettison the trunk and land safely in their grandparents’ arms. Seeing they were safe, I put the hammer down and wheeled out of Bucklesberry at an unprecedented 38 mph.

Longtime readers of this space may remember that not so long ago, one of these date nights nearly turned lethal. On our 20th anniversary, I took a garden pea-sized bite of steak and nearly died of asphyxia. To play it safe on this night, I planned to order a rack of air and a glass of hydrogen to wash it down.

Even with the removal of anything that had been birthed from the menu, there was still an 87 percent chance the evening would be ruined by something attributed to me.

Once the evening got going, things went swimmingly, although there was a small brush fire at the commencement of the festivities — somewhere between the bank and the door to my house, I’d lost my wallet.

Not since Gene Hackman’s Popeye Doyle ripped a car to pieces to find smuggled drugs has a vehicle been given such a thorough examination. I crawled all over that car but found no wallet. I found a pair of sunglasses, a few Happy Meal toys and Jimmy Hoffa’s Blockbuster card — but no wallet.

Just as I was about to rip open the tires with a hunting knife, The Wife calmed me down and we decided to look for the wallet later. I tried, but all during lunch I kept checking my pockets to see if I’d missed something obvious. The waitress noticed that I seemed to be giving myself a physical and asked if everything was alright. Not wanting to come off like a weirdo, I told her I was checking myself for ticks.

Over the next three days, the search for the wallet continued, but to no avail. I relented and started the arduous process of replacing my bank card, driver’s license and Bilderberg membership. I use the debit card for most of my financial transactions, such as buying gas, buying gas and occasionally buying gas, so there was only $8 cash in the wallet.

It’s that time of year again — the corn is picked, a nip is in the air … and I’ve lost my wallet again.

My semi-annual wallet losses are so dependable, scientists from Stanford to Walmart University routinely calibrate their instruments based on the cycles of my lost billfold. Usually after a few days of tearing up floorboards, the wallet appears out of nowhere — sort of like New Orleans Saints fans. Sadly, though, this latest disappearing act does not have a happy ending.

It all started last Thursday around 3:30 p.m., when I stopped by the bank in La Grange to make a deposit. During the transaction, my father-in-law walked into the bank and let fly with his classic “Is your barber on strike?” routine.

Honestly, after 22 years, that bit of comedy hasn’t lost any of its original charm. At one time, Aaron Sorkin was going to option it for a series, but eventually, he decided he wanted to do something less self-important and settled on “The West Wing.”

After bidding adieu to Red Skelton Jr., I put my wallet in my back pocket, walked to my car and drove straight home. I made no stops on the way because The Wife and I were going to paint the town red — or in the terms of newspaper pay, more like a deep mauve.

The Wife and I average about 3.6 dates per year, but this one was special as we were celebrating the 22nd anniversary of our courtship. She looks like a college sophomore and I have a passing resemblance to the guy who can pull his bottom lip up over his nose and honk out a killer version of “Bridge over Troubled Waters” out of alternating nostrils.

Thankfully for me, life isn’t fair.

After hosing the kids down, we corralled them into the trunk of my car and drove to my parents’ house. We motored onto the driveway and turned the car around so the trunk would be facing their front door. Two minutes of horn-honking later, my folks opened their front door. At this moment, I threw the car in reverse and immediately hit the breaks. This chain of events caused the kids to jettison the trunk and land safely in their grandparents’ arms. Seeing they were safe, I put the hammer down and wheeled out of Bucklesberry at an unprecedented 38 mph.

Longtime readers of this space may remember that not so long ago, one of these date nights nearly turned lethal. On our 20th anniversary, I took a garden pea-sized bite of steak and nearly died of asphyxia. To play it safe on this night, I planned to order a rack of air and a glass of hydrogen to wash it down.

Even with the removal of anything that had been birthed from the menu, there was still an 87 percent chance the evening would be ruined by something attributed to me.

Once the evening got going, things went swimmingly, although there was a small brush fire at the commencement of the festivities — somewhere between the bank and the door to my house, I’d lost my wallet.

Not since Gene Hackman’s Popeye Doyle ripped a car to pieces to find smuggled drugs has a vehicle been given such a thorough examination. I crawled all over that car but found no wallet. I found a pair of sunglasses, a few Happy Meal toys and Jimmy Hoffa’s Blockbuster card — but no wallet.

Just as I was about to rip open the tires with a hunting knife, The Wife calmed me down and we decided to look for the wallet later. I tried, but all during lunch I kept checking my pockets to see if I’d missed something obvious. The waitress noticed that I seemed to be giving myself a physical and asked if everything was alright. Not wanting to come off like a weirdo, I told her I was checking myself for ticks.

Over the next three days, the search for the wallet continued, but to no avail. I relented and started the arduous process of replacing my bank card, driver’s license and Bilderberg membership. I use the debit card for most of my financial transactions, such as buying gas, buying gas and occasionally buying gas, so there was only $8 cash in the wallet.

It was a bit of a burden to cancel the debit card, but the idea of someone emptying my bank account and using the money to buy two or three Snickers bars and upwards of two cans of beer was too much for me to handle.

Oddly enough, when I walked into my bank to cancel the debit card, I was told they couldn’t do it because I had no identification. I was told I’d have to call an 800 number to cancel, although they could give me money from the account.

“You mean I can’t cancel the account without identification, but I can get money from the account without identification?” I asked.

“That’s correct,” said the pretty lady behind the counter.

After the nice ladies at the bank helped me re-insert my eyes back into their proper sockets, I went to the grocery store. I was visiting a deadbeat friend who works there (more on him Thursday) and while waiting for him, I noticed a peculiar piece of cross-promotion: on a package of 2000 Flushes toilet cleaner I noticed a picture of country singer and happenin’ babe Jo Dee Messina.

As it turns out, Messina is the current spokesperson for 2000 Flushes. Now a true hack would say something like, “Wow, her career is really in the toilet!”, but not me. Let’s face it, a gig is a gig, and everyone with the exception of Rachel Ray is eventually going to spend some time with the toilet.

If every person in the United States gets trained to think of Jo Dee Messina when it’s time to visit the water closet, that woman’s face will end up on our money; the money that will hopefully be in the blue Ocean Pacific wallet I’ve just called out of retirement.

I was given the Ocean Pacific wallet for Christmas when I was 15. I can’t remember exactly who gave me the wallet, but I’ve narrowed it down to either Libby Smith or Gail Cottle. Whichever one of you it was, it was greatly appreciated then and especially now in this time of need. It features a little green man on a surf board and it clamps shut via a blue strip of Velcro.

The motto on wallet is the credo I’ve lived my life by: “Live clean, surf clean.”

Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase Jon’s book “Making Gravy in Public” at the Free Press office and at jondawson.com.